


Like Sleep to the Freezing

by Ink_Dancer



Series: Cowboy and Peril [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, First Time, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, Hurt-Comfort (kinda), Hypothermia, Illya's POV, Illya's kinda dumb but we love him, M/M, POV Third Person Limited, Post-Movie, explicit gay sex except i don't own a penis so like i did my best lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-10-17 08:07:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20617742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ink_Dancer/pseuds/Ink_Dancer
Summary: “Cowboy, hold still—”“Shut up—”With a resounding snap that echoed off the trees, the ice gave way. Illya barely had time to shout and see Napoleon’s startled expression before he vanished into the water.---The UNCLE team goes on a mission to Norway, and things go sideways when Napoleon falls into a frozen lake. Illya has to save his partner, keep him alive, and hopefully finish their mission—and keep up pretending he's not in love with his favorite American spy. Only some of those objectives go the way he intends them to.





	Like Sleep to the Freezing

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Hozier's "Cherry Wine."  
Part one of "Cowboy and Peril," does not require knowledge of the other two parts, but does contain references to Part 2. I wrote this one first (which is why it's part one) and it stands fine on its own, but if you want a clearer picture you can go read that first.

“There are no goddamn roads in this stupid country.”

“This is road.” Illya stomped one foot sharply on the road under them, on the compacted snow that hid the tar from sight. 

“Sure, _this_ one.” Napoleon scowled. “But if we can’t take a fuckin’ car to the cabin, then that is _not_ a _road_.” He was uncharacteristically grumpy today, sour about where they were and the cold and the lack of action so far on this mission. Illya had a feeling he was going to complain the whole time. 

“Snowmobiles are perfectly fine form of transportation, Cowboy.” Illya hooked his leg over the seat of the machine, grabbing the handlebars. “Have used them many times.”

“Sure you have, of course.” Napoleon turned away with a wry smile, his breath making clouds in the air. “Why does there have to be only one machine? I want to drive.”

Illya smirked, felt the cold on his briefly-exposed teeth. “Too bad.”

Still grumbling but clearly not willing to let Illya win by staying behind, Napoleon clambered on behind him and, after hesitating for a moment, wrapped his arms around Illya’s waist, bringing his chest flush with Illya’s back. 

Illya let out a short, tight breath, and shoved all of his thoughts out of the way. Now wasn’t the time.

“Are you actually gonna drive, Peril, or are we just gonna sit here in the cold all day?” Napoleon’s breath on his ear was warm.

“Patience is virtue, is that not the saying?” Illya grumbled, gunning the machine to life and taking off with a roar. The road faded to a trail within a mile, and Napoleon cursed as they hit bumps and roots. Illya grit his teeth as they went around a sharp corner—not because of the machine’s whine, but because Napoleon’s arms tightened involuntarily around his diaphragm.

“You _sure_ you know how to drive this thing?” Napoleon asked, raising his voice to be heard over the engine and the wind whipping past them.

“Sure. Used for generations in Russia,” Illya replied over his shoulder, just to annoy him. 

“Generations, is _that_ so?” Napoleon asked directly into his ear. The ensuing debate lasted them another two miles through the trees, and the comfortable rhythm of arguing got Illya’s mind off their proximity.

They were in northern Europe, somewhere in a northeastern part of Norway, close to the Soviet border. Waverly had sent them and Gaby here after receiving reports of a rogue KGB operative named Dmitri Kozlov who was hiding out in the snowy wilderness. He seemed to think that this Kozlov had intentions to smuggle weapons specs to Thrush, and so they had to find him. Napoleon had complained the whole way there (“I know you’re from the frozen wasteland, Peril, but some of us aren’t used to eternal winter”) and even Gaby hadn’t been pleased. But here they were.

After a few days spent snooping in a nearby village, teasing information out of locals and lounging in their funny little inn, they had a lead. A man in town said that he had a hunting cabin far from the outskirts of town, and that the electricity had been reported to him as being on, even when nobody was there. Gaby, who had started the conversation at a local pub, said that two other men had told her similar tales. She had come back with a paper listing directions to all three of the cabins. 

So now Illya and Napoleon were on their way to the first of them, to see if their hunch could be correct. Gaby was holed up back at the inn, maintaining contact with Waverly and staying close to the radio in case the boys needed help. She was also monitoring weather reports—there was a storm rolling in, possibly a big one. Illya wanted to check at least one cabin before it hit, but he also did not want to be caught in it. 

Napoleon continued complaining, despite the fact that both of them had layers of gear on to keep out cold. Illya actually felt a little warm, what with the coats and Napoleon pressed against his back, but he wasn’t about to rub it in. He ran hot naturally, and he was used to this weather. Plus, he was pretty sure that if he told Napoleon that he was warm, his mood would not improve. 

They got to the cabin in good time, and Illya parked the snow machine. The resulting quiet made his ears feel like they were full of cotton, the heavy silence of snow pressing down on him. Napoleon pulled his arms away and hopped off the snowmobile as soon as he could, starting toward the cabin. In his defense, Illya supposed it was more about the cold than anything else. Napoleon actually never shied away from contact like that—not like Illya did.

He pulled his gun out of its holster and climbed up onto the porch to Napoleon’s side. It was a nice place, secluded and just by the shore of a wide, frozen lake. Illya didn’t look at the iced-over expanse too long. With a nod at Napoleon, he silently pushed the door open and took long, quiet strides into the structure. 

Within a minute, he softly called out “all clear” to Napoleon, and heard the same response. The place was empty.

They met in the kitchen, and Napoleon put his gun on the counter, yanking his gloves and hat off. His balaclava quickly followed, mussing up his hair and revealing flushed cheeks and bright eyes as he looked out the window.

For his part, Illya just yanked the balaclava down to his throat and stuck his gloves under one arm.

“So. Odds on which of the other cabins he’s at?” Napoleon fixed Illya with abnormally shiny eyes, his body still trying to catch up with suddenly being slightly warmer.

“I thought he would be here,” Illya admitted. “Is closer to town, less dangerous during bad weather.”

“But closer to other people,” Napoleon pointed out. “If he’s hiding out, he wouldn’t want that.” He looked around the room, his brows knitting. “He’s been here, though.” He gestured at clean dishes in the sink and fresh wood by the fireplace. “He may be coming back.”

“We should go back to town. Now we know he uses this place. We can come back and catch him after the storm.” Illya put his gloves back on. “Come on, Cowboy.”

They had gotten to the snowmobile, and Napoleon was just climbing on, when Illya heard what he could’ve sworn was a gunshot from across the lake.

Illya jerked his head up and slid off the machine. “Did you hear that?”

Napoleon nodded slowly, his eyes far away. He took his gun back out.

The two of them took quiet steps toward the lake, whose shore was about twenty feet from where they were standing. When they reached the frozen edge, Napoleon looked at Illya somewhat skeptically.

“Is three feet thick all the way around,” Illya whispered. “In the middle, maybe thinner, but it would take much force to crack.”

“It’s almost April,” Napoleon hissed back. “The locals said there have been two big thaws already.”

“And look!” Illya stomped on the ice. “Froze again! We could drive truck across and be fine.”

“Whatever. I hope you’re right.” With that, Napoleon quieted and stepped onto the ice.

They made their way toward the center of the lake, making for the other side. Illya felt distinctly exposed, surrounded by white. He and Napoleon were in the center of a huge open space, two dark specks on ice and snow. He swallowed and lifted his gun a little higher.

Just then, a figure broke the tree-line on the other side, and Illya brought himself to a halt. Napoleon mirrored him. The other person didn’t see them at first, just kept coming, looking down as if to keep from falling. He had a huge dead rabbit in one hand and a shotgun in the other. This must be their KGB operative.

Illya remained still for a moment, unsure of what to do. Firing seemed reckless, surrounded by quiet, and Waverly would prefer their man alive for the moment. But he and Napoleon couldn’t just stand and wait for him to reach them. He felt Napoleon shift next to him, heard his soft exhale as he also contemplated their next move.

The man solved that problem for them by looking up and seeing them. He yelped, loudly enough to carry to them. For a moment, Illya thought he was going to run back into the trees. But then Kozlov dropped the rabbit, lifted his shotgun, and fired two shots at them. Napoleon let out an ugly shriek, one Illya had never heard from him before.

Swearing in Russian and not looking at his partner, Illya laid his finger on the trigger. The shots echoed across the lake, impossibly loud in the snow-covered forest. Kozlov ducked and hared back into the woods at an impressive clip. He was out of sight almost immediately.

“Okay. We can go get snowmobile, and follow him—” Illya began, turning toward his oddly quiet partner in an urgent motion. Then he stopped dead, joining Napoleon in stunned silence.

This operative was not a good shot, so neither of his shells had come close to their mark. But they’d hit the ice around Napoleon’s feet, at a hard angle. And it was cracking.

Napoleon was standing on broken ice.

He let out a strangled noise as he moved his foot just a fraction of an inch and the cracks cascaded out even further. His body was one long line of tension, his arms out wide for balance. Illya had never seen him so coiled, like a spring about to break. He hadn’t looked up yet.

“Hold still,” Illya commanded, shoving his gun back into his holster.

“No _shit_, Peril.” Napoleon almost snarled when he said it. His voice was low and scared. 

“Toss your gun.”

Napoleon didn’t protest, just checked the safety and gently threw it at him without really looking to check his mark. Illya caught it one-handed and slid it along the ice, far away from them, where it couldn’t hurt anybody.

“Okay. We go slow, okay? Something similar happened when I was a boy. Everything will be okay.” Illya finally caught Napoleon’s eye, and found them huge. He could clearly see the whites all the way around. He held out a useless hand in Napoleon’s direction. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Napoleon said, breathless. “You said it wouldn’t crack.”

“You yell at me later. Deal with problem first.” Illya looked down at the ice, examining the cracks and where it was weak.

“This is your fault,” Napoleon said lowly, also examining the ice.

_“Shhh,”_ Illya shushed him, going for a soothing tone and failing a little. “Foot here.” He pointed at a strong spot on the compromised ice. “Follow my finger. Put it here.”

“Will it break?” Napoleon asked, holding still.

“Crack again, yes. Not break. Trust me?” He looked up again, met blue eyes with blue. “Do you trust me?” he asked again, less sure this time. 

Napoleon swallowed visibly, holding Illya’s gaze with wide, scared eyes. “Yeah. Yeah. I trust you.” He took a deep breath, looked down, and took a step.

The ice made a noise like billiard balls clacking together, but it held.

They smiled at each other, but quickly sobered as the ice’s spiderweb pattern continued outward away from Napoleon. “Okay, next…” Illya trailed off. Most of the ice was really cracked now. He wasn’t sure about its integrity if Napoleon took another step. 

“Next?” Napoleon prompted nervously as the ice continued to splinter under his weight, even as he stayed still.

Illya’s heart hammered in his ears. He had to get Napoleon out of there, and fast, so the need for safety was replaced by the necessity of haste. “Jump.”

Napoleon stared for a moment, then seemed to almost sag in frustration. “Jump? That’s what you’ve got? _Jump_?”

“Cowboy, please, you will escape compromised area if you jump _now_ but another step, it will break, and if you stay, you _will fall_.” Illya held his arms out. “Jump. I will catch you.”

“That’s insane, you’re wrong,” Napoleon said roughly, shifting his weight. The ice groaned. “If I go slow, I can keep going.” He slid one foot toward, and the groaning became a long, trembling _crack_.

“Cowboy, _hold still—_”

_“Shut up—”_

With a resounding _snap_ that echoed off the trees, the ice gave way. Illya barely had time to shout and see Napoleon’s startled expression before he vanished into the water.

The whole world paused and held its breath. Time stopped. Illya would have _testified_ to it. The heavy white silence around him was oppressive, the snow and ice and deathly-still trees bright in his peripheral vision as he watched the cold, dark water close over where Napoleon’s head had been.

Then the moment snapped like the ice, and suddenly time was moving again, much, much faster. Illya let out an anguished cry. _“Napoleon!”_

He dropped to his knees at the edge of the hole and plunged his entire arm into it. It nearly paralyzed his body, the shock of the cold, but his brain was full of unhelpful things like: _shock at entering cold water causes instinctive inhalation_; and _water makes gear heavy and drags weight down_; and _how will I explain to Gaby_; and _Cowboy holy fuck Napoleon please do not die I cannot lose you_—

His hand made contact with something firm and sodden, and he curled his fingers into it, pulling up with all his strength and weight. The material slipped, twice. With a muffled curse, he put his other hand in the water too, yanking Napoleon upward—toward safety, toward _him_. The surface of the water fought him for a moment, but he grunted and shuddered and then, with an explosion of water that sloshed over his legs, he pulled Napoleon out.

He heaved Napoleon back onto the ice, relief flooding his veins dizzyingly for a moment and making him feel faint. With one hand fisted firmly in Napoleon’s jacket, he dragged the two of them as far away from the hole as possible. Then, for a moment, they just laid there on the ice as Illya struggled to get his breath back. Napoleon sputtered next to him, coughing up water and shaking so violently that Illya was scared he’d fall apart at the seams. 

“Napoleon,” he said when he was coherent again. “Cowboy, are you okay?”

Napoleon didn’t reply, but he was breathing raggedly, so that was a good start. Illya rolled him over to assess, looking him up and down. His lips were purple and he was so pale that he was probably close to unconsciousness. His eyes were closed, which scared Illya the most. If it weren’t for the desperate breaths his lungs were drawing in and the incredibly forceful shivers wracking his body, Illya would’ve been scared that he was dead.

“We need to get you warm,” he said, mostly to himself. Hoisting himself to his feet, he tried to loop Napoleon’s arm over his shoulder to support his weight. But Napoleon was too limp to be upright, let alone walk under his own power. For lack of better options, Illya scooped him up and bundled him against his chest, hissing at how _cold_ he was. He set off at a lumbering pace for the edge of the lake.

He had two options. One, attempt to take Napoleon back to town on the snow machine and try to beat the storm. Two, take him to the cabin and hole up there till the storm passed. Illya hesitated on the lakeshore, but only for a moment, because Napoleon gave a particularly violent shudder that spurred his feet to the cabin. His partner might not make it back to town, and Illya would rather keep Napoleon alive than push it for no reason. 

It took only a few moments for him to stumble back to the cabin, and as soon as the door slammed behind him, he set himself to work and didn’t pause to think.

He gently put Napoleon down on the couch and then, must less gently, started systematically stripping him. He could not stay in these soaked clothes, or else he would die. Illya didn’t even hesitate, although he did find himself blushing. Not pausing to dwell, he snagged a blanket off the couch and wrapped Napoleon up in it. 

Next came a frantic search through the cabin for towels, using his transit time to pull off his own wet clothes and leave them in heaps on the floor. He found not only towels but more blankets, so he grabbed those too.

Running back to the main room, he checked Napoleon’s vitals hurriedly. The fact that his partner hadn’t stirred or protested about Illya undressing him was incredibly concerning, but he tried not to think about it. He took a towel to Napoleon’s head first, shaking the icicles out of his hair. Then he took the blanket back off and dried the rest of him. His skin was still cold once the water was gone—he checked and found Napoleon’s pulse quick and shallow.

Swearing to himself, he looked around until he found a sleeping bag. An idea ricocheted around his skull, and he quickly got to his feet, crossing with the bag and a fistful of blankets dragging behind him. He laid them out in a nest on the floor in front of the fireplace, with the sleeping bag in the center. As an afterthought, he located some pillows and set them with the blankets as well. Carrying Napoleon over, he gently tucked him into the nest, pulling the blankets and the sleeping bag around him until he was completely cocooned. He tried to focus most of the warmth on the trunk of Napoleon’s body—warming up his extremities before his core could cause shock. Not wanting to put Napoleon’s head inside the bundle for fear of breathing problems, he tucked the only article of clothing he had that wasn’t wet—his hat—onto Napoleon’s head, making sure it covered his ears.

Napoleon made a mumbling noise at this, which brought Illya’s heart into his throat as he stared at his partner, begging him silently to wake up. But he quickly went under again. 

Resolutely recognizing the stirring as a good sign, Illya checked his pulse again. Finding it stronger, he snaked his hand further down to test the temperature of his chest. Satisfied that it was a little higher, Illya turned his focus to making a fire. 

It was roaring in no time, crackling a lot more merrily than Illya thought the situation warranted. But it was hot, and Napoleon’s face had more color in it, so he took the win.

With that, Illya went to track down clothes. He wanted to take a hot shower, but he didn’t want to leave Napoleon alone for that long. And putting a hypothermia victim in hot water could cause heart issues, which would be bad news. So he decided to wait.

Once he was dressed, he went back to the fire and collapsed, boneless, next to his partner. He sat there for a long moment, drinking in Napoleon’s unconscious but warming form and his deep, slightly-hitched breathing. Illya himself was breathing a little hard, from panicking and running around the cabin like an idiot. He took a shaky breath, running his hand over his face, relishing the moment of relative peace and quiet for just a little bit.

But he couldn’t sit still for long. He was far too restless, useless. So he heaved himself to his feet. “Do not die,” he instructed Napoleon firmly.

He wasn’t going to (at the moment), so Illya went to the kitchen and dug around. He found tea bags and mugs and a kettle, so he filled the latter with water and put on the stove.

Suddenly more relaxed for the first time in awhile, Illya remembered three things in rapid succession: he hadn’t radioed to Gaby, who would be worried about them; there was a storm coming; and Kozlov was still out there in the forest somewhere.

He pulled out their communicators and fiddled with them, turning them on as he looked over the back of the couch at the bundle of blankets that was Napoleon. He chewed on his lip and looked out at the dark sky, at the first flakes swirling by the window. There was no way they’d make it back before the storm came, and he couldn’t bring Napoleon back outside anytime soon anyway.

He caught Gaby’s signal. “Gaby?” he asked cautiously.

She responded immediately. _“Where are you?”_ She sounded peeved and concerned under all the static.

“The cabin.” Illya said, his voice creaking a little. He hadn’t realized that besides swearing repeatedly under his breath, he hadn’t spoken much since Napoleon had gone into the water. “There has been…a complication. We will not make it back before the storm is finished.”

_“Why? What’s going on?”_

Illya explained the situation, including the operative escaping into the woods. “He might come back to town before we do. Depends on when snow stops. But for now he is out in one of other cabins. We can look for him later, but is probably okay for now.”

_“That’s fine. I’ll keep an eye out. What about you and Napoleon?”_

“We will be stuck until he is better. But we will be okay—this place is well-supplied.”

_“Will he be okay?”_

“He will be fine.” Illya stared at Napoleon and chewed his lip, willing him to wake up and prove him right. 

Gaby seemed reluctant to get off the line. _“Let me know if you need anything.”_

“You will not be able to come in the snow,” Illya said, huffing out a mirthless laugh. “We will be okay, I promise.”

Gaby hesitated. _“Call anyway, okay?”_

“Sure. Yes. We will see you soon.” Illya turned off the radio, trying to seem like everything was normal. With a sigh, he went to Napoleon and checked on him. He seemed to be doing better, although his warming had plateaued somewhat. Frowning, Illya contemplated what to do about it—and was interrupted by the kettle shrieking. 

_“Gavno!”_ He ran back to it, took it off heat and poured it into a cup with tea before stirring it.

“P’ril?”

The soft croak (bastardizing his nickname) from the fireplace was like a bolt of lightning to Illya’s spine. He froze for a moment, then dashed back to Napoleon, coming to his knees next to him and hurriedly checking him over, as if something had changed now that he was awake. “Cowboy, hello,” he said softly, reaching for his throat to check his pulse. “How are you feeling?”

Napoleon mumbled grumpily and screwed up his face. Illya strongly suspected that he would have been swatted if Napoleon’s arms weren’t stuck in the sleeping bag. “M’fine,” he said blearily, looking around. “Wazgoin’on?”

“You are frozen half to death,” Illya said, pressing his hand to Napoleon’s forehead. Still too chilled, oddly enough. “You fell into lake.”

_“Fell?”_ Napoleon’s grogginess parted a little for him to pin Illya with a glare. “_Your_ fault,” he said acidly. Then he seemed to lose the burst of energy and slumped over.

“Yes, my fault.” Illya leaned over Napoleon to stoke the fire and add a new log. The resultant cracking undercut his next words. “I am…sorry, Napoleon, I…”

“Mmph. Shuddup.”

Illya looked down and saw that Napoleon’s eyes were half-closed again. He was slipping back under.

“Stay awake for a moment,” Illya pleaded. He crossed the room and scooped up the mug of steeping tea, bringing it swiftly back to Napoleon. “Drink. To warm up.”

“M’plenny warm,” he complained, which worried Illya, but he went along with it. Illya managed to coax about half of the warm liquid into him before he sagged against Illya’s shoulder. “Gonna go back to sleep now,” Napoleon declared, his clearest sentence so far.

“Okay, Cowboy,” Illya said, lowering him back down. “Wake up again, okay?”

He got no response. Napoleon was out again.

Illya sat back on his heels with a sigh and looked at his partner for a long moment. He sat by his side as he drank the rest of the tea, keeping the fire fed.

When the mug was empty, he decided that sitting and hovering wasn’t helping, so he hoisted himself to his feet and returned to the kitchen to take stock. 

There was plenty of non-perishable food, soup and the like. If the power went out (likely by now), the stove would still burn, so they’d be okay. There was a huge jug of water in the fridge, which would also be helpful. With a glance at Napoleon, Illya moved to the rest of the cabin. It was small, but well-furnished, with a good amount of emergency supplies. 

The only real downside was the lack of insulation or any kind of central heating outside of the fireplace. Which, of course, was an extreme disadvantage with Napoleon in the grips of hypothermia.

With nothing else to do, Illya grabbed a blanket of his own and settled next to Napoleon again. He gently pulled one of his partner’s arms out of the nest he’d made, draping it across his lap. With two fingers, he pressed against Napoleon’s pulse and just stayed there, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

He couldn’t stand just sitting, helpless and restless. It felt like his bones were itching to crawl out of his skin, so eager was he to get to work and do something to actually _help_ Napoleon.

But he could do nothing besides wait. So he sat, feeling like there were sparks in all his muscles, and tried not to get up and pace. How long he sat there, he didn’t know, but the fire crackling and the wind howling outside weren’t enough entertainment for him. His mind began to wander.

When they had started this thing, back when they’d been told they had to make nice and play the game together, he had hated Napoleon. He would have snapped his bones like twigs if his orders had permitted him. If someone had told _that_ Illya, that angry man, that it would end up like this? He would have laughed at them.

But now… He looked out the window. Night had truly fallen, and he couldn’t see the snow streaming past the window anymore. He refocused on Napoleon’s arm in his lap, on the pulse under his fingers.

He had worked alone for so long. All that time, and it had been so much easier. No attachments, no people in his way. Quick and always so quiet. But now he had Napoleon, and Gaby, and UNCLE, and he found he could not imagine not having a team anymore.

Illya squeezed Napoleon’s wrist absently. Now, he had people he cared about, as much as it terrified him. Weaknesses. People who would miss him, people who he would miss. People he would fight for and die to protect, who would do the same for him. 

He _loved_ them. He loved Napoleon and Gaby. And wasn’t that just the strangeness of the world, that someone like him was allowed to suddenly have people in his life who he truly, truly loved? He hardly dared believe it sometimes, when Gaby was curled up next to him after a mission or Napoleon was grinning at him after telling some stupid joke. 

Illya wasn’t allowed to love people. Or, more to the point, have people that loved him. That wasn’t how it worked. He looked down at his hands, large around Napoleon’s arm, and frowned. Those hands had broken and killed people, committed atrocities only forgiven because he was a nameless spy. These hands were permanently bloodstained and did not deserve to hold someone he cared about.

But Napoleon and Gaby never seemed to care. Despite all of Napoleon’s teasing and complaining, he clearly trusted Illya with his life. And Gaby had never once seemed to find something about Illya that scared her. Not even that first night they knew each other in that hotel, with the dancing. 

That kind of trust scared Illya, almost as much as how much he found himself reciprocating it. Trusting somebody else felt like falling over a ledge, and yet he did it, every day now, without question. 

And what kind of a person would he be, how much a monster, if he were to let Napoleon die now after all that trust had been imparted to him? Napoleon’s confidence, his belief in Illya, felt like something sacred. Felt like something fragile and valuable and hard-won, and Illya was terrified that he could just shatter it in his hands.

Napoleon was something very special. Illya examined him as he lay unconscious, watched him breathe through slightly-parted lips. Those dark lashes were long and soft over his cheekbones, and his hair was curled gently over his forehead. Carefully, slowly, gently, he reached out and traced the line of Napoleon’s jaw with one finger, bringing it to a stop at the sharp cleft in his chin. He pulled his hand away and dug his fingers into his own hipbone, trying to ground himself.

All this time together, spent by Napoleon’s side. Illya had been thinking of it for so long, mulling it over and hiding from it and pushing it away, but every time something like this happened (far too often—how Napoleon got into messes like these almost daily was beyond him), he was thrown back into it. Violently. Submerged in it, filled with it.

It had started, if he was honest, at the very beginning of their partnership, ten months ago. The moments he felt flickers of concern for Napoleon’s wellbeing. The very specific moment when he’d come to in the harbor and realized that Napoleon was supporting him and holding his head above the water and had saved his life, when he easily could have just walked away. 

And then, of course, the electric chair and Rudi and Napoleon’s burnt skin and bleeding nose. Sometimes Illya replayed the scene in his mind: Napoleon's pain-wracked face and the little trickles of blood running down his face, Napoleon's expression when he saw Illya in the window. His breathless voice, hoarse and raspy, telling him how pleased he was to see him, clearly relieved. The way he'd had to lean so heavily on Illya to get out of the chair, still shaking; his sharp flinch when the machine sparked. 

Illya was not sorry that Rudi had burned alive. In fact, he would have liked to use the chair on him more first.

He distinctly recalled how Napoleon had walked like a ghost for a few weeks after, sleeping poorly and acting strange. Illya had talked him through it, a little, in Cairo and in Paris. And although he’d clearly recovered, sometimes Illya _still_ saw the hollowness in Napoleon’s eyes, and knew he was thinking back to it. It filled him with unimaginable rage. 

And it always brought back the panic that had seized him when he had realized that Napoleon was in danger. He really should’ve known about…this…when he’d stood over that conniving bastard Rudi and asked Napoleon if he was okay. 

That had been a big hint, but he’d ignored it. He’d then seen Napoleon in danger a few times over the next couple of missions, but nothing very serious—enough to raise his hackles, though. He still did not put things together, because he was busy acclimating to the team environment. It wasn’t as hard as he thought it would be. The three of them fit well together.

And after the first two missions as an official team, they had that week off in Paris. Illya had never liked France, but Napoleon _reveled_ in the city, drinking it in and smiling all the time, dragging Illya out to explore and bringing all three of them out to submerge themselves in the culture. Illya had seen more carefree people and more evidence of lives lived without fear in that one week than he had ever seen before.

And so he hadn’t been able to run from it anymore. Couldn’t hide in the typical Soviet arguments against it, not when he had seen so much more of the world and learned about people who let themselves be who they were with no holds barred. Couldn’t keep letting the old nonsensical excuses win out over what was bursting in his chest. He’d known who, what, he was since he’d been a boy in Russia, and Napoleon made him want more than he ever had in his whole life.

_I am in love with Napoleon Solo_.

He had said it out loud to himself, a couple times, into a mirror. Nearly punched the glass in immediate response, out of pure fear. He hadn’t, though. His affection for Napoleon did not warrant violence. 

He would not tell him, though. Illya had vowed, in the intervening time, to never say it to him. Coming to terms with it himself was one thing, but telling Napoleon was inconceivable. He wouldn’t do that to his partner, wouldn’t lay that weight on his shoulders, couldn’t face the possibilities of what could go wrong. (It had been ten months since they’d met now, and only a little less since Illya had fully put together his feelings—he was doing okay, at this point, except that being around Napoleon sort made it feel like he was burning up from the inside. So far it was manageable.)

But he could say it out loud to him now, when it would fall on deaf ears. Illya took another deep breath and said, so, so softly, “I love you.” He said it reverently, disbelieving that he was even allowed to whisper it, to feel it, to love Napoleon as he did. It was barely loud enough to be heard over the fire, but it was enough for him, enough to feel solid in it. To feel good about it. He pressed his lips together slightly, content in the feeling. 

He cleared his throat, and found himself continuing to talk to Napoleon’s unconscious form. “Do not die on me,” he ordered once again. “I have worked hard to keep you alive. Would be selfish of you to die now.”

It sounded weak to his ears. If Napoleon were to die, it would not be selfish—it would be Illya’s fault. (Like so many other things.)

As if in direct response, Napoleon’s pulse seemed to flutter under Illya’s fingers, and he swore he felt his own heart stop in response.

It must have been an illusion, though, because it continued strong as ever after that. A little shaken now, Illya checked Napoleon over more thoroughly, listening to his breathing and his heartbeat and feeling for a temperature. He seemed to be recovering nicely.

Illya yawned. Night had truly fallen outside, and he knew he had to sleep. But he couldn’t fathom separating from Napoleon for the whole night, even if he was better. What if something happened? He hesitated for a moment, thinking.

Then, with a shrug, he unwrapped some of Napoleon’s blankets. “Move over,” he said pointlessly, wedging his way next to the sleeping bag amid the bundle of covers. He knew he would not fit into the sleeping bag with Napoleon, but this was a solid solution—curling up just outside it.

He shifted and squirmed for a moment, orienting them. He intentionally put Napoleon between him and the fire, intending to trap him between two sources of heat. Then he pressed his chest to Napoleon’s back, where he could monitor Napoleon’s vitals comfortably.

This would ensure that at the very least, Napoleon wouldn’t get worse, and Illya would be close in case of emergencies. It was a good plan. And _if_ he found himself enjoying being flush with Napoleon’s body through the thin layer of the sleeping bag, enjoying having his arm wrapped over Napoleon’s chest, enjoying listening to his breath close to his head, then that was his prerogative.

The steady beat of Napoleon’s heart under his palm and the warm cocoon they were sharing quickly pulled him under. Drowsily, he contemplated that this really might be his one and only time getting to sleep next to Napoleon Solo. _Too bad it is not under better circumstances_.

The cracking of the firewood, the howling of the wind and snow, and Napoleon’s soft breathing soon put him to sleep.

* * *

Illya woke to an elbow catching him in the ribcage.

He gasped for a moment, his eyes snapping open and catching scattered images. Mostly movement, and a flurry of warmth. Another jab to his torso.

Suddenly remembering how he’d fallen asleep, Illya reached out on reflex and wrapped strong arms around Napoleon, holding him in place.

“Let me _go—_” Napoleon sputtered, flailing in his grip. 

“No—injured—_stay_,” Illya grunted incoherently, bearing down. 

Finally, Napoleon subsided, breathing heavily. Illya slid out of the cocoon, tucking the blankets back around him. 

“Will you be calm now?” The immense and powerful relief at seeing his partner conscious and recovered washed over him like wave, almost shutting him down for a moment. He pushed it aside. 

“Oh, Peril, it’s you.” Napoleon’s eyes looked clear, if confused. What little Illya could see of him looked much better. “You must admit, this isn’t how one expects to wake up most of the time. I didn’t know what was happening.”

“Just for a moment, be still.” Illya tried to ignore the frantic exhilaration like a drumbeat in his ears: _He’s okay, he’s okay, he’s okay_.

Napoleon settled, still looking perplexed. “Fine, but explain to me what’s going on. Why am I covered in blankets? Where exactly are we? Why were you sleeping next to me? And…” He paused, wiggling a little as if checking something. “Why am I naked?”

Illya looked away and blushed stupidly. “There is good reason,” he said insistently. “You fell through the ice. You were very cold.”

Napoleon raised an eyebrow. “The ice _broke_.”

“Yes, yes, my fault,” Illya replied absently. Napoleon’s expression went slack and he did not respond immediately, so Illya set about checking his vitals. His hands fluttered around Napoleon to take stock. His pulse was strong, his breathing was good, and his temperature was normal. Even his color was good, his lips no longer blue and pink high on his cheeks. He probably wasn’t fully recovered, he’d need to rest and regain his strength and perhaps get a physical, but they were out of the woods.

“You didn’t answer any of my questions,” Napoleon said, cutting through Illya’s assessment and corresponding sigh of relief. 

“I helped you recover,” Illya said, standing up and moving to the kitchen. Now satisfied that Napoleon was more or less fine, he could get up or stay put as he pleased. Illya was going to make some food in the meantime.

“You were helping? By sleeping with me?”

“Just precaution,” Illya said defensively. He turned to see Napoleon struggling to his feet, still covered in blankets. “Hungry?”

“Starving,” Napoleon grumbled. He looked around for clothes for a long moment and, finding none, wrapped one of the blankets around himself and shuffled over to the kitchen. He was still wearing Illya’s hat, a few of his tangled dark curls escaping from the sides. It was no longer so firmly tucked about his ears, but he seemed to have no inclination to remove it. He slumped into a seat and propped his chin on one hand. “I see we are still in this…charming cabin. Why?”

“What is last thing you remember?” Illya asked. He went to crack open a can of soup, then froze as Napoleon’s hesitation lasted a little longer than usual. _Blyat_. What if he’d somehow been conscious for Illya’s little bedside confession?

He needn’t have worried. “I remember you pulling me out of the water,” Napoleon said thoughtfully. Illya turned just in time to see him shiver, and suppressed a wave of concern. “It was so cold… I was awake for a little bit on the ice, and then… just a blank.” He shrugged. “What happened?”

“You almost froze to death.” Illya ripped the top off of a can of soul by its tab, pouring the contents into a pot. “I brought you here—we could not go back to town in your condition. Plus, was snowing.” He gestured out the window where snow was _still_ falling in the dim grey morning light. “I dried you and put you in blankets by fire, and gave you tea when you woke up one time.”

“Tea.” Napoleon snorted. “A-plus remedies from the KGB.”

“Is highly recommended to give hypothermia victims hot liquids,” Illya said, trying not to snap at him. Having him be unconscious for so long, mixed with Illya’s overwhelming concern, had slightly overridden how insanely irritating Napoleon could be.

“This does not explain why I had no clothes. Or why you were next to me. Sleeping. With me.” Napoleon fixed him with a cool stare, his expression unreadable.

Illya turned away in time to hide his blush. “Your clothes were soaked, you couldn’t stay in them,” he said gruffly, stirring the soup. “After that, it just seemed simpler to use the blankets alone as warming device, with no clothing barrier in the way. I do not know if that is medically sound, but I have heard reports on such methods working well.”

Napoleon snorted again, this time with more amusement behind it. He didn’t interrupt.

“And I slept next to you because I did not want to leave, in case something happened. And bonus, we share body heat, so you get more warm.” Illya turned from the stove, color still high on his face. “And now, you are fine.” He gestured at Napoleon’s restored form. 

Napoleon hummed in apparent understanding, and they lapsed into silence. Illya ladled the soup into a bowl and placed it on the table with a gentle _clink_. A spoon quickly followed, and Napoleon nodded his thanks as he started digging in. Illya sat across from him and leaned back in his chair, looking past his partner to watch the snow swirl. At some point, Napoleon realized he had Illya’s hat on and tugged it off with a soft chuckle, laying it on the table. Illya smiled at that.

The quiet sound of Napoleon’s spoon against the bowl was the only noise for a long time. Illya let himself relax into it, into the feeling of having Napoleon be in motion again beside him. It was easy to forget how still he had been, how close to death he had come, when he was so lifelike in front of him.

Napoleon broke the silence after a few minutes. “What did you mean, ‘my fault’?”

For a very long moment, Illya had no idea what he was talking about. Then he connected the dots and made a soft noise in his throat, shifting his weight. “My fault you fell.”

Napoleon’s head jerked back a little, his expression tightening. He blinked a couple of times, tilting his head at Illya quizzically. “Uhh…how so?”

Illya blinked right back at him. “You said it was my fault. When you woke up for tea.”

That earned him a snort. “Peril, if you’re basing whose fault my near-drowning was on what delirious-me said, then I think you’re sorely mistaken. I don’t even remember that conversation, let alone assigning you the blame.” He shook his head, his eyes bright and his face open as he smiled crookedly at Illya. “I think—”

Whatever he thought, Illya would not know, because he interrupted him. “Does not matter. Was my fault. Regardless of your…assigning.”

If possible, Napoleon looked even more taken aback now, his smile sliding right off his face. “It wasn’t your fault. These things happen.”

“Was.” Illya crossed his arms. 

Napoleon cocked his head a little harder to the right and frowned. “It wasn’t your fault,” he said again, his voice softer this time. “I should have listened to you when you told me to jump. I was panicking, and I wasn’t thinking, but I should have listened to you.”

“You seem quite convinced of my fault when the ice is cracking,” Illya pointed out, tilting his chin up. 

“I was in a bad mood yesterday,” Napoleon quipped. “And I was scared.” He pitched his voice lower on this last, turning his eyes down to the table. “I didn’t say anything I really meant.”

Illya took that like a bullet, because when the ice was falling out from under him, Napoleon had looked Illya in the eye and said he trusted him. He took a deep breath and shoved that away. He knew that Napoleon did trust him, knew that part wasn’t what he was talking about. It still stung a little.

“Does not matter,” Illya said again, waving a hand in dismissal. “It was my fault. We go onto the lake when you say no, we get shot at and the ice breaks. Does not matter your mood or your state of mind. Was my fault.”

Napoleon had started shaking his head at some point, and seemed unable to stop. “Do you feel this way every time something bad happens? Your fault?”

Illya shrugged, a production with his broad shoulders. “_Da_. When something bad happens to you. Or Gaby, but bad things happen to you more. Rome was my fault—”

“That was Gaby’s fault, actually, in my opinion—”

“And Istanbul, and Cairo, and—”

“I was absolutely fine in Istanbul, nothing happened, and we all know Waverly is the one on the hook for Cairo,” Napoleon interrupted with a scoff. He cut Illya off when he opened his mouth again with a snapped, “Are you just gonna list all our missions in chronological order? _Don’t_ do it, I won’t hear it.”

“My fault!” Illya said, pressing on. “You get hurt a lot, Cowboy, and most often, it is my fault.”

“You’re a riot, Peril,” Napoleon muttered. He opened his mouth, seemed to be about to say something else.

“And—” Illya felt compelled to keep going, like a runaway train, keeping Napoleon from chipping in. “And, if you _die_, that would be my fault too. I would…never forgive myself if you die, Cowboy.” He looked at the table now, not caring what Napoleon is doing to rebut his claims or react to what he said. Or maybe he did care, far too much. “I owe you my life, many times, again and again, and if I could not save you this time…”

“_I_ owe you _my_ life a thousand times over,” Napoleon protested. “We have each other’s backs, Peril, neither of us is keeping score. God, how many times has Gaby saved us, or we saved her? Are you keeping track of hers too?” 

Illya snorted, but didn’t reply.

“And, I’d like to point out, I am not dead.” Napoleon gestured at his body, raising his eyebrows high. “Clearly. So it’s fine.”

“Is not fine!” Illya growled, far more aggressively than the situation warranted. “If you died…” And for a brief, dizzying moment, Illya actually forgot where he was and what he was doing and that Napoleon was awake. For a brief moment, he felt like he was back by the fire last night, crouched by his partner in the heavy, heavy quiet of the snow and seclusion. It felt like the conversation was not real. So he said: “I would not recover, Napoleon. I love—”

And that was enough. He tripped into it, caught himself before the _you_, remembered the daylight and Napoleon’s bright eyes two feet from him. But not in time. Napoleon was a very smart, smart man, and he did not need any hand-holding from Illya’s phrasing to understand exactly what he’d been about to say.

Illya closed his mouth very slowly and looked down, trying to breathe through the absolutely _ringing_ silence that was ranging between them. Time had stopped, he was sure of it, frozen again like on the lake. Napoleon had gone very still, but Illya had not seen his face before he looked away. He was still unmoving.

(_Stupid_, he thought absently, _stupid _svolach,_ for practicing the words out loud. Too easy to let them slip between the teeth_.)

As Illya held his breath, time slowly became unstuck, but he still just couldn’t fucking look at Napoleon, couldn’t bring his gaze up, just kept looking at the table as the silence stretched on and on and on—

“I. I should…” Illya stood up abruptly, his chair scraping on the floor. He took a stutter-step toward the fire, turned in place. “I should. Um.” He scooped up Napoleon’s empty bowl and took it to the sink, his shaking fingers losing their grip and dropping it in with a deafening clattering sound that seemed to jerk Napoleon to life again.

“Hey, _hey—_” His voice was loud, urgent, insistent. Illya couldn’t find a tone in it, no forgiveness for his blunder, and he winced.

“Forget it,” Illya snapped. “Please.” He hesitated, then came hustling back over the table where Napoleon was now standing with his hands out, like a man trying to still a skittish animal. Illya still did not make eye contact. He continued like an intent steamroller, hands all over, saying, “I need to check your vitals, wait a moment—” He needed to do this one last time, to make sure Napoleon was okay before he came to his senses and decided to never let Illya touch him again. 

“Illya. _Hey_.”

Illya continued as if he was deaf, checking Napoleon’s pulse in his wrist and finding it strong and fast (very fast). He was reaching for his forehead when Napoleon got a hand around his arm.

“Stop, stop, stop,” Napoleon said, now with a solid grip on both of his wrists, finally stilling Illya long enough to force him to look at his face. Illya barely had a moment to register Napoleon’s eyes, so blue and shining and creased at the corners, before he was being yanked downward and he was too startled to resist—

And then Napoleon was kissing him.

Illya’s entire nervous system short-circuited. He was entirely unprepared for this outcome. Surely he was dreaming, hallucinating. Napoleon Solo could not be kissing him.

But Napoleon’s lips were moving gently against his, almost hesitantly, and Illya could feel the subtle rasp of stubble on his skin. He finally got his paralyzed body to respond and started kissing him back, unsure at first, then more insistent. As soon as he felt Napoleon’s hands release his wrists to clasp the sides of his neck, Illya wrapped one arm around Napoleon’s waist, pulling their chests flush together. Napoleon was definitely recovered—Illya could feel his body heat against his ribcage like it was his own.

He stuck his other hand in Napoleon’s hair, taking great pleasure in mussing it up, and Napoleon took that as a cue to break apart. They stayed close, breathing each other’s air, recovering for a moment. It was all so sudden, so new—but at the same time, so very not new at all.

Following that train of thought, Illya tilted his head up so that when Napoleon leaned back in, he couldn’t reach his mouth. “I do not…” Illya whispered, and Napoleon reared back, putting space between their bodies. Illya missed his heat immediately, so he quickly said, “I do not want this to change anything, I do not want you to feel as if you have to—”

“I want this to change things,” Napoleon interrupted, and Illya looked down sharply at him. He found him smiling. “Just a little. We’re still us.” He took advantage of Illya facing him again and leaned in to kiss his cheek, feather-light. “Is this okay?” he asked against Illya’s skin.

Illya let out a shaky breath through his nose, relief—not unlike when he pulled Napoleon out of the water—flooding through him. “Very okay.” And this time, when he kissed Napoleon, he didn’t stop.

They continued like that for awhile, soft and unhurried, until Napoleon made a funny, displeased sound and almost fell over. Illya caught him and carefully lowered him into his chair, frowning up at him as he crouched. “You doing okay, Cowboy?”

Napoleon smiled, a tiny thing with only half his mouth, and nodded. “Still recovering, I guess.” He gestured at his legs. “Kinda shaky.”

“I see.” Illya thought for a moment. “Perhaps you should rest some more.” He was reluctant to let Napoleon do this, after such a whirlwind of discoveries. He didn’t want to stop touching him. But also, he’d like his partner to be healthy, for a multitude of reasons.

“Maybe,” Napoleon said, also seeming reluctant. 

Illya stood, pulling Napoleon up with him and steadying him with a hand on his back. “While you rest, I will shower, if you think you can be alone.”

“Ohh,” Napoleon said, looking up at Illya with a soft smile. “Can I join you?”

Illya was immediately caught off guard. “What about rest?” he asked. Then his face suffused with heat and he immediately said, “Wait, you want to—”

“Not that, Peril.” Napoleon’s smile widened. Illya had never noticed just how much it made his eyes crinkle up. “Just shower. I want to get the feel of the lake water off.”

“You cannot do that alone,” Illya thought out loud, finally catching Napoleon’s drift. “I will help.”

“Now you’re getting it,” Napoleon said encouragingly. 

* * *

It was much easier said than done, as it turned out. Napoleon was not exactly on the verge of collapse, but his legs were certainly trembling a lot, and neither of them were too keen on letting him fall and crack his head open. So Illya kept him propped up against the sink while he fiddled with the shower. “Is hot enough?” he asked, and Napoleon leaned under him to feel the spray, pressing them hip to hip.

“Yeah, that’s good.”

Illya let his breath out very quickly. He was too touch-starved to be unaffected by all of this, to go from zero to one hundred percent contact without being a little overwhelmed. He couldn’t say he wasn’t enjoying himself, though. His eyes traced the line of Napoleon’s bare collarbone. 

Napoleon dropped the blanket to the floor in a swift movement. The ease he showed took Illya’s breath away, and he stood still and watched Napoleon climb into the shower, leaning heavily on the wall. It was only when Napoleon turned around, raised an eyebrow at him, and said, “Are you coming, Peril?” that Illya actually got it through his head to get undressed and follow him. 

He’d seen Napoleon naked before. It was nothing new, really, because necessity had led them to strip in close proximity at least a few times. But this was different, this was vulnerability and intimacy, and now Illya had permission to let his gaze linger and he soaked in every bare inch of Napoleon with the gratitude of a desert taking on rain.

The shower itself was not large, and it was almost comical to have the two of them share the space. Napoleon may have been shorter than Illya, but he was far from a small man. And with Illya’s bulk, it was severely cramped.

Luckily, neither of them were too concerned about personal space. Napoleon leaned his weight heavily on Illya, standing between him and the spray of water. There was not a single moment where they were not pressed completely against each other. Illya felt like he was breathing for it, living for every point of contact between him and Napoleon that sent sparks dancing through his veins. 

It took a little longer that it really should have. Napoleon handled himself, for the most part, but Illya snagged the shampoo away from him. When he first pushed his fingers into Napoleon’s hair, he watched in great fascination as Napoleon’s eyelids fluttered and he pushed into the contact like an appreciative cat. Illya kept going, sudsing up his hair and scraping gently against his scalp with his fingernails. 

At that, Napoleon made a very interesting sound and turned in Illya’s grasp, bringing them chest to chest. He leaned up to kiss Illya, his lips wet and soft and open even before they met Illya’s mouth. Illya kept his fingers moving in Napoleon’s hair, even though it was now clean and long-since rinsed. He was very quickly developing a preoccupation with Napoleon’s hair, if he hadn’t had one already.

After a few moments, Napoleon pulled back and blinked his eyes open around the water running down his face in beads. “How long, Peril?” he asked hoarsely.

Illya swallowed hard, hesitating. He knew what he was being asked, and he definitely knew the answer. Then, very softly: “After Rome, probably. But I…knew, figured it out, after Paris.”

Napoleon made a soft humming noise, possibly of comprehension. He didn’t prod further. 

“And you?” Illya asked, wishing to turn the attention away from himself.

Napoleon laughed, and Illya felt the expelled air on his lips. It made him shiver. “Long time. After Rome, like you. It…may have started when you came back for me.”

Illya snorted, but his chest felt warm, the kind that wasn’t actually based in heat. “Long time, Cowboy. I did not know that I am so irresistible.” Despite his teasing tone, the smile that was eating up his face was more touched than anything else, and he knew Napoleon could tell.

“We talked about this in Paris, you know how messed up I was after Rome. But you saved me. Of course I fell for you.” Napoleon emphasized this last by very gently smacking Illya’s chest with an open palm. He was indignant, and then suddenly, his eyes went very soft. “Nobody’s ever come back for me like that. Did a number on my self-control.”

“Mm.” Illya leaned in to kiss the corner of Napoleon’s mouth, just because he could. “I will kill those who left you behind, no?” It was partially a joke, to ease the tension, but Illya really meant it. He’d very much like to kill the people who betrayed Napoleon’s trust.

Napoleon chuckled anyway. “Sure. Don’t tell Waverly, though. That’s a lot of CIA folks.” 

“Would not dream of that.” Illya moved his mouth along Napoleon’s jaw, biting back a grin at his stifled groan. “You are safe with me, Cowboy.”

Napoleon got his index finger under Illya’s chin and pulled his face up. “I know.” He cupped his hand around the back of Illya’s head and reeled him in to kiss him, long and deep. 

Illya’s back was cold, which hadn’t bothered him until he suddenly shivered. “You are stealing the water,” he said grumpily when they parted for air.

“I _am_ the one who almost froze to death, dearest Peril,” Napoleon said, rolling his eyes. “But in any case, I feel as though I’m going to fall over. Perhaps we should get out.”

“Good idea.” Illya reached all the way around Napoleon and turned off the shower with a flick of his wrist. Napoleon immediately pressed his wet body a little closer to Illya, trying to regain some of the warmth from the sudden lack of hot water. Chuckling a little, Illya opened the curtain and snagged a towel, wrapping it snugly around Napoleon’s shoulders. “All good, Cowboy.”

Napoleon merely grumbled in reply, lifting himself a little reluctantly off of Illya and stepping carefully out of the bathtub to sit heavily on the closed toilet. “Go find me some actual clothes, please,” he said, jerking his chin at the discarded blanket on the bathroom floor.

“Mm, yes.” Illya grabbed another towel and wrapped it haphazardly around his waist before crossing the room to leave. He turned just as he opened the door, grinning when he saw Napoleon’s slightly awestruck face, his eyes clearly stuck on Illya’s waistline, the V of his hips. “Like what you see, Cowboy?”

Napoleon turned a pleasing shade of pink and looked down. “I want clothes, please and thanks.”

Illya rumbled out a laugh but let him be, continuing out of the bathroom in search of clothes. He found some, but based on the clothes he himself had been wearing, their KGB man was more Illya’s size than Napoleon’s. The clothes would hang off him, but it was the best they had. Illya scooped up a small pile of them and brought them back to the bathroom.

Napoleon was quietly sitting right where he’d left him, and Illya found himself inclined to join him in the comfortable silence. They both dressed quickly, although Illya found himself loathe to watch Napoleon vanish under fabric. 

When they were both ready, Illya held out a hand to Napoleon, offering to help support him back to the main room. But Napoleon waved him off, and they made their way back to the kitchen table. “We should call Gaby,” Illya said, suddenly reminded when he saw the radio equipment on the counter.

Napoleon looked up at him with a raised eyebrow. “You haven’t already? How long have we been here?”

Illya checked his watch. “It has been twenty hours since we first arrived, before you fell into the water. And yes, I already spoke to Gaby, but she will need an update on our status.”

“You’re gonna tell her about…” Napoleon flicked his index finger between his chest and Illya’s, his brow furrowed. He looked tense.

Illya opened and closed his mouth for a moment. “I am referring to your physical condition and the weather,” he said slowly. “For—us…I think we wait. Yes?”

Napoleon chewed on his lip. “Yeah. Waiting. Sorry, I got confused.”

“Is fine.” Illya busied himself with the radio gear, trying to banish the image of Napoleon’s uncomfortable expression at the prospect of telling Gaby of their newfound…whatever this was. He swallowed. He hadn’t thought they’d run into something like this so quickly, but he couldn’t say that he was surprised that Napoleon had reservations like that. Something like this was unsafe, many people thought it was unclean or unnatural, and it could be dangerous. _But it’s Gaby_, Illya protested in his mind. _It’s just Gaby_. But now was not the time to discuss it. 

He got everything ready and quickly caught Gaby’s signal, calling her directly. “Chop Shop Girl,” he said, repeating himself when he didn’t hear an immediate response.

_“Illya?”_ she finally said, sounding a little out of breath. _“Is everything all right?”_

“Is fine. Napoleon is awake and recovered.” He held the receiver out to Napoleon.

“Hi, Gaby,” Napoleon said into it, grinning. He looked completely normal again, as if his exchange with Illya over their ‘status’ hadn’t happened. 

_“Napoleon! I’m so glad you’re okay.”_ Gaby’s voice sounded warm and relieved. _“I take this to mean you two can come back soon?”_

Illya looked out the window, at the snow still falling fast. “Probably not,” he said heavily. “It’s still snowing hard, and the snow machine is definitely buried. And all of our winter gear is ruined from the lake.”

There was silence for a moment as Gaby seemed to consider this. _“I can come get you,”_ she said, sounding a little hesitant. _“But I’ll have to hunt around for a snowmobile, and the weather is bad here as well. It will probably be about six or eight hours before I can head out.”_

Napoleon and Illya looked at each other, and although Illya felt them come to a mutual conclusion, he wasn’t sure what had passed between them. Still, they both turned back to the receiver and murmured their assent. “We’ll see you then, Gabs,” Napoleon said.

_“Count on it. And stay warm, both of you! Especially Napoleon.”_ With that, Gaby disconnected them. 

For a moment, Napoleon and Illya just stood there, unsure of what to do. It was midmorning, and if Gaby wasn’t coming for six hours at her most optimistic, they had plenty of time to waste. Illya started to clean up the radio equipment and pack them into a neat pile on the counter. Napoleon just watched him, his expression thoughtful.

It felt deeply peaceful now, with the snow and the quiet and the lack of things to do, especially now that Napoleon was recovered and they were (so unexpectedly) on the same page about their feelings for each other. Illya would have felt enormously relaxed, if he didn’t feel as though the fledgling relationship he and his Cowboy were sharing was suddenly on strangely shaky ground.

“Something on your mind, Peril?” Napoleon asked, settling onto the couch with a pleased sigh. 

Illya hesitated, but followed him when Napoleon patted the cushion right next to him. He settled against the arm of the couch and, tentatively, pulled Napoleon toward him. Napoleon went willingly, curling his legs up on the cushion and leaning his whole upper body into Illya’s chest, pillowing his head on Illya’s shoulder. Illya reached his left arm over and around Napoleon, closing him in snugly. Napoleon reached up with his hand to tangle their fingers together, which made Illya’s chest ache with a sweet wave of fondness.

“I am thinking, yes,” Illya said reluctantly. Napoleon’s obvious willingness for proximity had abated his concerns somewhat, but he found himself wanting to broach the topic anyway.

“Whatcha thinking about?” Napoleon turned his head where it rested on Illya, his nose brushing Illya’s neck and making him shiver a little.

“Your…reaction to telling Gaby. About this.” Illya copied Napoleon’s earlier gesture, flicking his index finger between them. “You seem very alarmed by the concept.”

Napoleon hummed in response, not directly refuting the assumption, which made Illya’s heart plummet for a moment. But then he said, “I wasn’t alarmed, necessarily. More surprised, and a little wary.” Illya could feel the vibrations of his voice in his chest and shoulder.

“Wary?”

“Only a little.” Napoleon paused, inhaled, spoke again. “It’s just Gaby,” he said, unconsciously echoing Illya’s earlier thoughts. “But I was surprised by what I at first understood to be your comfort with telling people. I don’t know if you actually are, because I completely misread the situation, but in the end it was a comment on your comfort, not mine.”

Illya chewed on this for a moment, playing with Napoleon’s hand. “So you are comfortable telling people about us?”

“I mean, shit, Peril, I’m not gonna shout it from the rooftops or anything. I don’t have a death wish, I don’t wanna get murdered.” Napoleon said this completely unbothered, with even a little chuckle on the last word, as if the subject was casual or light. “But people we trust? _Gaby?_ For sure. I doubt she’ll even be surprised.” 

“Perhaps you are right,” Illya said quietly. He wasn’t going to start down that other road with Napoleon, wasn’t going to ask how he could be so cavalier about being killed for loving another man. That was a very different conversation for a very different time.

Napoleon wasn’t following his train of thought. “But before I ask you the same question, I feel like we should back up a bit—what even is this? What is _us_?”

“Is _this_,” Illya said emphatically, gently shaking their joined hands for emphasis. “Is…romance, and all that. I thought I was clear.”

“Well, the first thing you said after we kissed was that you didn’t want it to change anything.” Napoleon shrugged, shifting against Illya. “I just…assumed you wanted to make this a sort of casual thing at first. And usually that means not telling anybody about it.”

“I only said that to be sure you did not feel pressure,” Illya said. He moved away from Napoleon a little, just so they could see each other’s faces. “I…I want this, Napoleon. I want all of it. A—a future, with you.” It felt so strange to say, and he was embarrassed to be talking in such terms (to the point of blushing beet red) but it was Napoleon. And he meant it.

Napoleon smiled, a slow thing that crept across his face until he was beaming. “Okay, Illya,” he said softly. “I want that too.”

They both moved, apparently simultaneously, and met halfway for a searing kiss. Illya brought his hand up to wrap his fingers around the back of Napoleon’s head, his palm cradling his jaw. They inhaled each other greedily, a little messy, mostly full of relief and joy and the snapping of so many different kinds of tension. Napoleon gently bit down on Illya’s bottom lip until he groaned, then he pulled back, tugging the lip with him until he let it slip out and pop back against Illya’s teeth. 

He looked up at Illya with a smirk and pupils blown wide and said, clearly joking, “So you’re cool with telling Gaby, then.”

Illya would have laughed if he wasn’t preoccupied. “_Pizdets_, yes, Cowboy,” he said hurriedly, then reeled Napoleon back in by his grip on his head. Napoleon let him, laughing until he groaned as they clashed together again. 

Kissing Napoleon was dizzying and intoxicating. He kissed with his whole body, attacking it with the same focus and intensity that he brought to every task in his life. Illya couldn’t quite keep up, but he sure as hell enjoyed it, and responded as enthusiastically as he could. Napoleon pulled back, immediately making Illya ache for contact, but then he brought his mouth down on Illya’s throat, sucking a hot line from his ear down his jawline. Illya hissed at it and shifted so he was flat on the couch, pulling Napoleon on top of him by his hips. Napoleon made a pleased noise against Illya’s skin as they came flush together, from their chests down their legs. 

He bit down on a sensitive part of Illya’s neck, making him twitch and let out an embarrassing noise. Napoleon huffed a laugh, then made a strange humming noise. Illya was going to ask him what it meant, even opened his eyes to do so, but was interrupted by Napoleon’s hand sliding down his torso to cup Illya’s groin, which he found half-hard already. Illya inhaled sharply and jerked his knees apart instinctively, knocking Napoleon completely off-balance. He abruptly fell between Illya’s legs, his forehead knocking against Illya’s chin.

Napoleon stopped moving and seemed to take a moment to regain himself. Then he took his hand away and leaned his forehead against Illya’s, chuckling a little. Illya felt the soft noise of it in his sternum. “You okay, Peril?”

“Mm.” Illya ran a hand up Napoleon’s back. “Been awhile. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” Napoleon gave him a quick, sweet kiss. “We can just take it slow, or…whatever you need.”

Illya considered for a moment, and Napoleon let him, content to just breathe together. Finally, Illya whispered, “I am fine. Will let you know if not, yes?” And Napoleon nodded with a crooked smile, so Illya slipped his hand up under the hem of Napoleon’s shirt, pressing his fingers against the warmth of his bare skin, dipping his fingers between the muscles of his back. Napoleon shivered, his head bumping (much more gently this time) against Illya’s. “You still cold, Cowboy?” Illya asked, even though he knew he really wasn’t.

Napoleon huffed another little laugh. “If I _was_, it’d be just normal cold.”

“I can help with that,” Illya said breathily. He stuck both hands under Napoleon’s shirt now, rucking it up to his ribs as he explored Napoleon’s chest and back. Illya flicked one of his nipples with his thumb, making Napoleon jolt above him. 

“I’d like that,” Napoleon said, his voice thin. He leaned up and let Illya tug his shirt off, mussing his hair up. Illya immediately ran his fingers through it, finding it still damp from the shower. He pulled Napoleon down to keep kissing him. His lips were starting to feel heavy and thick, unaccustomed to so much use. 

Things blurred a little bit. Napoleon nonverbally expressed his displeasure about not being able to get his hands on Illya’s bare chest, so Illya sat up obligingly to let him yank his shirt off. It was discarded somewhere, near Napoleon’s. They stayed like that for awhile, sat up with chests together and legs entangled, exploring with hands and mouths. 

Illya ran his thumb gently over the long, thin white scar on Napoleon’s right arm. He pressed a gentle kiss against the line, put there by a bullet in Cairo, and the contact made Napoleon shudder. He liked getting those reactions out of Napoleon, and paid special attention to the spots that made him groan—the divot above one of his hipbones, a spot just under his collarbone, as many as he could find. (He did avoid the still-dark electrical burn scars, left over from Rome, that lingered on Napoleon's ribs and wrists.) He liked learning Napoleon’s body, learning how to play him and make him feel good. Napoleon returned the favor, and before either of them knew it, they were panting and grinding on each other, half incoherent.

Illya tipped them so he was below Napoleon again, wiggling his pants off. (There was a loud _thunk_ as the gun on his belt hit the floor, but he paid it no mind.) Napoleon caught his drift and quickly followed suit. They let out matching groans when they were both naked, pressed up against each other literally from head to toe. They just moved against each other for a few moments, both rock hard and mindless. Illya let his head fall back, digging his fingers into Napoleon’s shoulder blades, losing himself for a moment in this simplest and basest of sensations.

Napoleon laughed at him, but in a gentle way, which got him to tilt his head back up. Illya met his eyes, and found them wide and dark with arousal, but crinkled at the corners and half-lidded. His breath was coming shaky, both of theirs was. “You good, Peril?”

Illya didn’t really reply, just wormed his hand between them on a whim and wrapped a big hand around both of their dicks. Napoleon went rigid, his breath freezing in his chest. He dug his fingers into the couch cushions, holding himself just above Illya’s chest with trembling arms. “This okay, Cowboy?” Illya asked, squeezing just a little.

Napoleon didn’t speak, just nodded. His teeth were digging deep into his lower lip, turning it white.

So Illya began to move his hand, reveling in this, something new. The hot line of Napoleon’s length against his, but more importantly, the fascination and satisfaction of making Napoleon wriggle and whine and suck harder on his neck with just the movements of his hand. It was addictive, and Illya actually let go of his own cock (a little reluctantly) to focus on jerking off Napoleon.

Napoleon noticed, made a soft noise, and leaned back a little to fit his own hand between them. Illya went mostly still when he felt Napoleon’s hand close over him, because if _that_ wasn’t something completely different and really fucking _good_, he didn’t know what was. Napoleon’s calluses against his skin, his confident movement, the way he slipped the pad of his thumb over Illya’s slit to make him blindly thrust up and curse—Illya had never felt so good in his life.

They pumped in rhythm with each other, messily meeting to kiss with a clash of teeth and bruising pressure. Napoleon’s pants started coming closer and closer, and Illya responded, changing up his movements corresponding to what made Napoleon most vocal. (He fucking _loved_ the noises he could get this man to make.) 

Napoleon retaliated, and Illya felt his back clench. He gritted his teeth, determined to get Napoleon off first. Luckily, he wasn’t far off, and it only took a few more strokes before Napoleon hissed a warning into his ear. In response, Illya just moved a little faster.

Napoleon came across both their bellies with a soft whine and a single strangled word that sounded an awful lot like Illya’s name. Illya let go of him before he got too sensitive and closed his fist around the stickiness, pulling his hand out from between them and letting it just hang off the couch. Napoleon sagged against Illya’s chest, and Illya used his clean hand to rub up and down Napoleon’s back. He pressed a kiss against his temple, which stirred some movement in him. “You okay, Napoleon?”

He nodded, skin rasping against Illya’s. “Oh, yeah.” Napoleon’s voice was a little muzzy, but he pushed himself back a little and started moving his hand again, back to himself quite quickly. Illya took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, but it didn’t work. He felt his muscles tighten.

“Napoleon, I’m—”

Napoleon nodded, moved his hand faster. “Yeah, Illya. I gotcha.” He twisted his wrist suddenly, and Illya jerked his hips and came with a muffled groan, also spilling hot and sticky across their stomachs. Napoleon let him go, hooked his hand over the back of the couch to keep it out of the way. 

Not that Illya was aware of this. He felt vaguely floaty, and better than ever before. That was…that was…

“That was good,” Napoleon breathed across Illya’s throat, finishing his thought out loud. 

“Very good,” Illya agreed quickly, his brain reorganizing itself again. “I am…very upset that we were not doing this for the last ten months.”

He felt Napoleon grin. “Well, better late than never?”

“Mm.” Illya let them lapse into silence again, warm and pliant and soft against each other. But the mess on their stomachs quickly cooled and became unpleasant, so he gently tapped on the nape of Napoleon’s neck. “Got to clean up.”

“Yeah.” Napoleon sat up with slightly shaky movements, wrinkling his nose. “Gross.”

Illya chuckled and leaned in to quickly kiss his forehead before standing. He went to the bathroom and found a cloth, wetting it and bringing it back to Napoleon to clean them both up. He then wet it again, wringing it out until he was sure the cloth was pretty well clean. This wasn’t their place, after all.

He found Napoleon leaning back with his eyes closed, still naked on the couch. Illya smiled softly down at him before pressing a hand to the top of his head, carding through his hair. “Come on, Cowboy. Nap time.”

Napoleon cracked one eye and hummed an affirmative response. Illya crossed to the fireplace and scooped up a few blankets, bringing them back to the couch and settling there with them. He pulled Napoleon on top of him again, his head resting almost in the hollow of Illya’s neck. “This good?”

“Yeah.” Napoleon’s eyelashes felt soft against his collarbone. 

Reaching over the edge of the couch, Illya one-handedly gathered their clothes into a messy pile. The gun scraped against the floor as he dragged his pants a little closer, so he unhooked it. But he left it close.

This was so…easy. It felt so natural to be curled up like this, Napoleon a little off-center on top of him, his palm flat on Illya’s ribs. He heared Napoleon sigh contentedly, and his breathing quickly evened out. He was already asleep.

Illya closed his eyes too, and found himself exhausted. Not just from their…activities…but also because of the sheer volume of emotions he’d experienced (and had to express) so far today. He didn’t really mean to or want to fall asleep, but he couldn’t fight it off.

So he drifted off, in a rather similar position to one that just hours ago he thought he’d only experience that one time in his life. He couldn’t believe his luck, even as he slipped into unconsciousness.

* * *

Illya woke up entangled with Napoleon for the second time that day. He felt so warm, so sated, having Napoleon’s body pressed up against his chest. He tightened his arm around Napoleon’s waist and nuzzled his nose into the top of his head, trying to figure out what had woken him up.

Then he heard it. A noise from outside, the sound of snow being tamped down. It must have awoken him. He reluctantly pulled his arm from Napoleon’s torso to check his watch. It was almost five—right in the middle of Gaby’s window.

With a sigh, Illya disentangled himself from Napoleon and tucked the blanket back around him. He took a moment to take in his sleeping face, at how peaceful he looked like this. He pressed a gentle kiss to Napoleon’s warm forehead. Then he pulled on the pants and shirt he’d discarded, and he stood and walked over to the door to greet Gaby. As he went, he saw out the window that it had stopped snowing. _That’s nice_, he thought idly.

Without pausing to think or check through a window, Illya opened the door with a twist of his wrist.

And standing there in front of him was a tall, angry man holding a gun in his face.

The blood thundered in Illya’s ears and his hand immediately started twitching. He missed the first of what the man in front of him said over the roaring in his ears, but he got the gist well enough.

“Back up,” snarled the ex-KGB man, moving the gun closer to Illya’s face. “Back up, Kuryakin.”

Illya backed up. He was not prepared for this Kozlov knowing his name. So he decided to return the favor. “Kozlov,” he said, his voice low. “What are you doing?”

To his credit, Kozlov’s eyes only widened slightly. He was scarred all over, his eyes wide and frightened and angry. He wordlessly jerked his gun upward, and Illya slowly raised his hands to shoulder-height.

“What are you doing,” he asked again, this time without inflection. He resolutely did not look toward the pile of blankets where Napoleon lay on the couch. If Napoleon was still asleep, or even if he was faking his stillness and his quiet, Illya would not reveal his presence to this man.

Kozlov hesitated. “Looking for you,” he said at last.

Illya raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Do we know each other?”

“Perhaps you do not remember.” Kozlov shrugged. He seemed to be getting more comfortable pointing a gun at Illya—his eyes were more focused now, the fear bleeding out of them. “That is fine. But we met, in the KGB.”

“I will take your word for it.” Illya backed into the room a little further. His gun was somewhere near the heap of clothes he and Napoleon had discarded, the only weapon they still had since they’d left Napoleon’s out on the ice. If he could just reach it…

“I was informed of your _defection_,” Kozlov said, sneering around the last word. “The bosses may be willing to accept such a thing, but not me. You deserve to be put down like the dog you are.”

“Is that so.” Illya was only half-listening now. He’d heard this speech a couple times over the past ten months. He was loathe to admit it, but Russians could be very predictable. The blind “patriotism” was wearing on him. “I must ask you, are you connected with Thrush? Are you smuggling weapons specs?”

Kozlov’s face contorted with confusion, an exaggerated expression that Illya chalked up to his complicated emotional state. “What is this ‘Thrush’?” he asked. “I have weapons plans to give another spy, someone who will put them to good use.”

Illya hummed. So Waverley was right, except for his assumption that Kozlov knew what he was doing. It was gratifying, at least, that they hadn’t come all this way for nothing. 

Growing impatient, Kozlov took a sudden step forward and pressed the muzzle of the gun against Illya’s forehead. Illya froze, and they stood there together, balanced on a knife edge. The metal was cold on his skin.

“Do it, then,” he hissed, forgetting himself. “If you are so determined.”

Kozlov’s eyes flashed, and Illya readied himself, tensing to knock the gun away, to defend himself. But before either of them could move, there was a rustling sound to Illya’s left.

“Illya? What’s happening?” Napoleon asked groggily. He was sitting up, bare-chested, one eye half closed and the other fully closed with his knuckle in it, trying to scrape out sleep. He looked bleary, unfocused, and it took him a long time to understand what was happening in front of him. Illya and Kozlov just looked at him.

“Kozlov,” Napoleon finally decided, sounding less surprised than annoyed. “Kind of you to drop in.” If Illya didn’t know him _very_ well, he’d say that Napoleon looked relaxed, languid. But his jaw had a muscle jumping in it, and his eyes would not leave the spot where Illya had a gun to his head. Illya knew he was angry, and he knew he was scared. His jaw clenched harder when he saw Illya looking.

“Who is this American dog?” Kozlov sputtered. His gun wavered, then fell away from Illya’s head. Both Napoleon and Illya exhaled quietly. “Who _is_ this?”

Illya watched the gun, waiting for an opening to go for it. “Surely you’ve heard of Napoleon Solo,” he said, his tone absent as he worked out timing in his head. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Napoleon make a very quick and jerky movement, so fast as to look like just a spasm. Illya wondered what he was doing.

To his dismay, the gun came back up, and this time it wasn’t pointed at him. Napoleon’s eyes went wide as the gun came level with his own head, the barrel held steady. “Perhaps,” said Kozlov, his voice trembling and thick with venom, “you’d like to watch your little American pet die before I put you down. How does that sound?”

If Illya’s blood had been roaring before, it was nothing compared to now. He didn’t think, didn’t pause, just moved his whole body with a wordless snarl. He almost went for the gun itself, but the prospect of it going off and hitting Napoleon made his blood run as cold as the lake water, so he settled for putting himself in front of it. “Gun on me,” he rumbled, looming over Kozlov.

The gun dipped again as Kozlov reassessed, and Illya tensed to charge him, to take whatever bullet was squeezed off in panic just to wrestle this odious man away from Napoleon. But before he could, a shot rang out and everybody jumped.

For a heart stopping moment, Illya was sure that somehow, Napoleon gotten shot. But then Kozlov howled, and his gun fell to the floor with a clatter as he collapsed, clutching a bloom of blood on his knee.

Illya reflexively kicked the gun away, and then stepped on Kozlov’s knee with his full weight. It cracked, a wet, nasty sound, and Kozlov screamed, high and raw. It felt good. Satisfied that their attacker was indisposed, he turned to Napoleon.

Who was still just sitting there on the couch, with his chest bare and Illya’s gun in his hands. The barrel was smoking. 

Illya fell heavily to his knees next to Napoleon, pulled the gun away as he looked up at him. “You okay, Cowboy?” he asked. He reached up to run his thumb lightly over Napoleon’s forehead, rubbing gently over his hairline. His other hand came up to cup Napoleon’s cheek.

“Yeah, I’m fine, Peril.” Napoleon gave him a sunny grin, his eyes clear. And the worst part was, Illya knew he _was_ fine. This was their life. Just because it had happened since the first time they… It didn’t make it much different. Napoleon wasn’t shaken, wasn’t traumatized, was barely even scared. And didn’t that just prove how strange and terrible their lives were?

Illya smiled softly. “Quick thinking, with my gun,” he said.

“Well, I do tend to keep track of your weapons.” Napoleon gestured at the pile of his clothes still beside the couch. “And you gave me a nice clear opening. Good team effort.”

“Yes, you’re right.” _God_, Illya wanted to kiss him. So badly. 

But Kozlov was there, and for some reason, Illya didn’t want to do it with him in the room. He was also making a lot of moaning and whimpering noises, which was very annoying. And they should probably get him back to town anyway.

The next hour was a blur. Napoleon got dressed, they tied up Kozlov, and then they radioed Gaby once more. She was on her way, she said, and indeed arrived with an extra couple snow machines (she was accompanied by two helpful locals) ten minutes later. Illya and Napoleon loaded Kozlov onto a machine and rode back together. Illya felt Napoleon twist around to watch the cabin fade into the distance, and he understood why.

It felt a bit like a haven, in his mind. The quiet, the seclusion, the things that had gone on there. He kind of missed it already. He focused on Napoleon’s warm, firm body against his back to take his mind off of it. They might be losing the cabin and its privacy and were left with just the memories, but he had Napoleon with him. Which was the only important thing.

Illya and Napoleon and Gaby reported to Waverly and kept their injured prisoner in an unused, locked closet. The boys drank with Gaby and told her a carefully curated version of events, but she smiled at them a little knowingly over her glass. She knew, somehow, but was going to pretend for them until they were ready. 

That was fine with Illya and Napoleon. 

She kissed them both on the head when she went to bed. “I am very glad you’re safe,” she declared, “and I love you both. Please get some rest, and promise me I won’t have to rescue your sorry asses before morning.”

They laughed and promised and she retired for the night.

Napoleon and Illya looked at each other, in the darkness of their own room. Two beds. Each perched on the edge of his own, facing each other. It was quiet.

Illya wasn’t sure who moved first, and he was never able to piece it together afterward. But he knew that suddenly they had met in the middle of the two beds and were devouring each other, hands all over, mouths messy and inexact. It was good, so good, to get to do this _finally_ after a life-or-death situation, to get to feel another person’s warmth and solidity under his hands, to feel Napoleon’s lips and his tongue and hear his breathy little gasps when Illya started kissing down his neck. So often he’d wanted to do this after he or Napoleon had been injured or in danger, wanted to be able to hold him firmly between his hands and assess, for himself, that they were both okay. He felt heady, giddy, high on surreality. He got to _do_ this. He got to live this, now, and in the future.

They gravitated to one of the beds, with Napoleon pushing and Illya going willingly. His knees hit the edge and he let himself fall, pulling Napoleon with him. They landed in a heap, Napoleon holding himself up with his arms on either side of Illya’s head, the same position as on the couch in the cabin. He held himself there, suspended above Illya, and in the dim light all Illya could see of him were the fine lines of his face and the deep shadows they threw and his eyes, shining. He looked like a sculpture. 

“I love you,” Napoleon whispered, and it was the soft, reverent voice that made Illya’s mind go quiet. It was much like what _he_ had sounded like when he confessed aloud to an unconscious Napoleon on the floor of that little cabin.

“I love you too,” he said, barely keeping his voice even. And when he brought Napoleon’s head down to kiss him, it wasn’t desperate or sloppy or fast like before. It was gentle and deep and suddenly all Illya wanted to do was sleep again. In a place they wouldn’t be woken up by a gunman, a place where he could wake up with Napoleon and stay next to him for awhile.

“Do you want to go to bed?” Illya asked softly.

Napoleon considered this from his position of literally being pressed against Illya from hip to chest, his head just barely lifted off of Illya’s own. Then he nodded. “Yeah. I’m tired.”

They settled into Illya’s bed, and Napoleon shifted so they were face-to-face. He looked up at Illya with a small, crooked smile. “Goodnight, Peril,” he said.

Illya smiled back and wrapped his arms around Napoleon with a sigh, slotting them together so Napoleon’s head was in his chest and their legs were tangled together. “Goodnight, Cowboy,” he rumbled back. 

Napoleon was warm against his body, a line of heat pressed against him. Illya fell asleep and did not think about spies or gunmen or Napoleon disappearing into a frozen lake. He dreamt of sunshine and warmth and Napoleon.

**Author's Note:**

> Translations: pizdets - damn; svolach - scum/jerk—i used it as ‘dumbass’; gavno - shit; blyat - technically ‘whore’ but it culturally means ‘fuck’  
Hope y'all like this!


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